THE CURE by MARTIN EASTLAND

It was his skill they coveted, above all else. He had been revered, being likened to a surgeon cutting out a cancer.  Michael Rivers was the best contract killer in the nation, and his career as a Marine Gunnery Sgt. ensured that position. He had taken some of the most unenviable assignments with frightening precision, cementing his legend among the Chicago underworld as he waded through the countless corpses he had created. Crooked Senators, rival narcotics overlords, predators (for a considerably smaller, more affordable fee), and scores of other lesser ranked fare, such as prominent drug dealers targeting adolescents.  He had been the best, but had the cloak of anonymity to protect him, known only as ‘THE CURE.’  

    But that was yesterday. Today, ten years after he hung up his gun forever, he was stricken with anxiety, a shadow of the man he once was. A ghost in a land he couldn’t fathom.  He had barely escaped the single failed assignment with his life intact, and had known, instinctively so, that his days as an American citizen were numbered.  He did the one thing he knew best. He vanished.  

    He stared out at the cherry blossoms flailing in the wind as they struggled to remain intact. Their time was at hand, giving up the ghost, floating to the ground as gracefully as they had perched upon their branches.  Tokyo was way too hot to visit yet. He had tried several cities in Japan, yet for all their respective, indigenous beauty, none had appealed so much as the ancient city of Kyoto, the original seat of power from centuries past.  He had spent the decade immersing himself in the mindset, tongue, traditions and cultural etiquette of his adopted nation to the point where even the average native Japanese ’man on the street’ was in awe of his as-yet-unbeheld grasp of their identity.  He transfixed them with his grasp of their language mechanics in record time for any gaijin, ever.  But even with the massive overpopulation of that more tranquil city, the perfect city in which to vanish from the West, he was beset by a powerful anxiety.  Although he never denied his inner fears, he refused to accede to them.  

    To live a life of fear, is to die within.

    He remained on the tatami, o-cha  ( powdered green matcha tea) cup in hand, staring at the light rain pelting the Emperor’s castle in the distance, and reflected on his past.  It did not please him.  

     At all.

     The man had not identified himself upon arrival, and this had not affected Rivers as much as it might have had the man been a Westerner.  But there was something off about the man.  He was deferential to Rivers, to the point where it was a homage to the ronin of the old world, in a time when plaintiffs would beseech these masterless samurai to settle a quarrel with a rival for the princely sum of 5,000 pieces of gold.  He listened to the stranger carefully, although he had already known he wanted no part of it any longer.  He spoke in Japanese, knowing that his host was more than able to understand his every word.  

    ‘That is my request, Rivers-San. Please accept it by releasing my family from his continued threat.‘   

     This request was one which demanded immediate approval. There could be no asking for time to consider, or undertake reconnaisance of the job, as he had previously always insisted on.  That was fine, expected even, maybe. But only after accepting the assignment.  

Rivers thought long and hard, taking in his mind every variable he could possibly perceive happening.  There was great risk in assuming his former mantle but, although he knew his condition would offer more caution in action, it could also present a danger that he would panic under fire due to it.  There was another variable which Rivers had to seriously consider.  The payment. He was being offered a staggering ¥200m to find and eliminate a high-ranking Yakuza oyabun

had taken advantage of a ruthless businessman‘s daughter and caused her to commit the ancient act of redemption known as seppuku (ritual suicide), rarely done by women unless they had been irredeemably dishonored.

The Yakuza chief had vanished into the inner prefectures where, he knew, he could meld safely into the rural villages without fear of discovery.  Rivers knew that the old man would be jumpy around any young Japanese man knowing, in turn, that they had been sent to kill him. But these villages were were accustomed to westerners passing through, bringing valuable trade with them before getting back on the next bullet train to Miyamoto, the home village of Japan’s most famous son, the legendary samurai, Musashi Miyamoto (Japanese names assume the family name first).  

      Rivers nodded, saying nothing. The nod was all the stranger required. He lifted the lid of the case he had brought. It was full to the brim with wads of taped ¥100,000 notes.  The stranger closed the case, and set the combination lock. 

      ‘Half now, half when Hanada-San is dead. Proof will be forthcoming. His head will be enough. Nothing less,’ the stranger stipulated. His tone was firm and immovable. There would be no negotiations, no exceptions.  He would have to decapitate a Japanese Mafia boss to see the other briefcase. A life for a life. To the Japanese, when the family honor is disgraced, the sole solution required could be no less than death, although cutting off his head was a touch much, even for Rivers. His anxiety blistered beneath his placid, stony, surface.

He closed his eyes as the stranger left happily. Tomorrow he would begin the hunt for the most dangerous man he had ever been pitted against.

For now, however, he would sleep. Yes. He would sleep until the anxiety dissipated and he could, once again, think clearly about the task ahead.

And the certain death which awaited him. He did not welcome the notion, but accepted it. He was lost in the silence of his once-warring mind.

At least for now.

THE END